University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII
RIVERSIDE COTTAGE.

Mrs. Johnson did not like Dr. Richards when she came
to know him, and yet he was an almost daily visitor at
Riverside Cottage, where one face at least grew brighter
when he came, and one pair of eyes beamed on him a welcome.
His new code of morality worked admirably, and
as weeks passed away he showed no signs of weariness
in the course he had adopted. Mr. Howard himself was
not more regular at church, or Alice more devout, than
Dr. Richards. The children, whom he had denominated
“ragged brats,” were no longer spurned with contempt,
but fed instead with pea-nuts and molasses candy, the doctor
going frequently into the by-lanes where they lived,
and where they began to expect him almost as much as
Alice. He was popular with the children, but the parents,
clearer sighted, treated him most shabbily at his back, accusing
him of caring only for Miss Alice's good opinion,
and of being at heart a most consummate knave!

This was what the poor said, and what many others
thought. It could not be that John Richards, whom they
had known from boyhood as proud, selfish, and overbearing,
could so suddenly change his entire nature, becoming
at once so amiable, so familiar, so generous, so much, in

short, like Alice herself. As well might the leopard change
its spots, and many were the insinuations thrown darkly
at Alice, who smiled at them all and thought how little
Dr. Richards was understood.

As the winter passed away and spring advanced, he
showed no intentions of leaving Snowdon, but on the
contrary opened an office in the village, greatly to the surprise
of the inhabitants, and greatly to the dismay of old
Dr. Rogers, who for years had blistered and bled the good
people without a fear of rivalry.

“Does Dr. Richards intend locating permanently in
Snowdon?” Mrs. Johnson asked of her daughter as they
sat alone one evening.

“His sign would indicate as much,” was Alice's reply.

There was a faint sigh in the direction of the sofa, on
which Mrs. Johnson, who for several days had been suffering
from a severe pain in her head, was lying, and the
sigh smote painfully on Alice's ear, for well she guessed
its import.

“Mother,” she said gently, as leaving her chair she
came and knelt by her mother's side, “you look pale and
worried, as if something ailed you more than your head.
You have looked so for some time past. What is it,
mother? Are you very sick, or —” and Alice hesitated,
“are you troubled about me?”

“Is there any reason why I should be troubled about
my darling?” asked the mother, smoothing fondly the
bright curls almost touching her face.

Alice never had any secrets from her mother, and she
answered frankly, “I don't know, unless — unless — mother,
why don't you like Dr. Richards?”

The ice was fairly broken now, and very briefly but
candidly Mrs. Johnson told why she did not like him.
He was handsome, refined, educated and agreeable, she
admitted, but there was something lacking. The mask
he was wearing had not deceived her, and she would

have liked him far better without it. This she said to
Alice, adding gently, “He may be all he seems, but I doubt
it. I distrust him greatly. I think he fancies you and
loves your money.”

“Oh, mother, you do him injustice, and he has been so
kind to us, while Snowdon is so much pleasanter since he
came.”

“Are you engaged to him?” was Mrs. Johnson's next
question.

“No,” and Alice looked up wonderingly. “I do not
like him well enough for that.

Alice Johnson was wholly ingenuous and would not for
the world have concealed a thing from her mother, and
very frankly she continued,

“I like Dr. Richards better than any gentleman I have
ever met, and it seems to me that people here do him injustice,
but I may be mistaken. I know he is unpopular,
and that first made me sorry for him. I am sure he
is pleased with me, but he has never asked me to be his
wife. I should have told you, mother,” and the beautiful
eyes which had so charmed the doctor looked up confidingly
at the pale face bending over them.

“God bless my darling, and keep her as innocent as
now,” Mrs. Johnson murmured, bowing her head upon
her daughter's, and kissing the rosy cheek. “I am glad
there is no engagement. Will you promise there shall
not be for one year at least?”

It was a hard thing to ask, for more than she guessed,
till then, did Alice's heart incline toward Dr. Richards.
Slily, adroitly, he had insinuated himself into her affections,
boasting that he could sway her at will, only let him
attend the Lenten services, week days and all, drop something
in the plate every Sabbath, speak to all the ragamuffins
he met, take old Mrs. Snyder out for an airing every
week, and he was all right with Alice Johnson. And

this was the man from whom Mrs. Johnson would save
her daughter, asking again for the promise.

“Yes, I will, I do,” Alice said at last.

A second “God bless my darling,” came from the mother's
lips, and drawing her treasure nearer to her, she continued,
“You have made me very happy, and by and by
you'll be so glad. You may leave me now, for I am tired
and faint.

It was long ere Alice forgot the expression of her mother's
face or the sound of her voice, as she bade her good-night
on that last evening they ever spent together alone.
The indisposition of which Mrs. Johnson had been complaining
for several days, proved to be no light matter,
and when next morning Dr. Rogers was summoned to her
bedside, he decided it to be a fever which was then prevailing
to some extent in the neighboring towns.

That afternoon it was told at Terrace Hill that Mrs.
Johnson was very sick, and half an hour later the Richards
carriage, containing the doctor and his sister Anna,
wound down the hill, and passing through the park, turned
in the direction of the cottage, where they found Mrs.
Johnson worse than they had anticipated. The sight of
distress roused Anna at once, and forgetting her own feebleness
she kindly offered to stay until night if she could
be of any service. Mrs. Johnson was fond of Anna, and
she expressed her pleasure so eagerly that Anna decided
to remain, and went with Alice to remove her wrappings.

“Oh, I forgot!” she exclaimed, as a sudden thought
seemed to strike her. “I don't know as I can stay after
all, though I might write it here, I suppose, as well as at
home; and as John is going to New York to-night he will
take it along.”

“What is it?” Alice asked; and Anna replied,

“You'll think me very foolish, no doubt; they all do,
especially John, and have tried to laugh me out of it, but

I have thought about it, and dreamed about it, until it is
impressed upon me that I must do it, and I had decided
to attend to it this very day, when we heard of your
mother's illness, and John persuaded me to come here
with him, as he wished to say good bye to you.”

“I'll get you writing materials if you like,” Alice said;
“or you can go at once to the library. Your brother will
wait, I am sure.”

“Yes; but I want to know if you too think me foolish.
I'm so dependent on others' opinions;” and, in a low tone,
Anna told how long she had been wanting some nice
young person to be constantly with her as companion or
waiting-maid, and of the advertisement seen early last
winter, how queerly it was expressed, and how careless
John had been in tearing off the name and address, with
which to light his cigar. “It seems to me,” she continued,
“that `unfortunate married woman' is the very one
I want. I cannot account for the interest I feel in her,
and in spite of all my family can say, I've concluded to
write, and let John take it to the Herald.”

“Yes; but how will you find her? I understand that
the address was burned,” Alice rejoined quickly, feeling
herself that Anna was hardly sane in her calculations.

“Oh, I've fixed that in the wording,” Anna answered.
“I do not know as it will ever reach her, it's been so long,
but if it does, she'll be sure to know I mean her, or somebody
like her.”

It was not at all clear to Alice, but she made no objections,
and taking her silence as a tacit approval of her
project, Anna followed her to the library.

“I dislike writing very much,” she said, as she saw
the array of materials, “and I write so illegibly too. Please
do it for me, that's a dear, good girl,” and she gave the
pen to Alice, who wrote the first word, “Wanted,” and
then waited for Anna to dictate.

“That is what will assure her, should she ever see it,”
Anna said, pointing to the lines,—

“No objection raised if the young woman is married
and unfortunate, or has a child a few months old.”

Alice thought it the queerest advertisement she had
ever seen, but Anna was privileged to do queer things,
and folding the paper, she went out into the hall, where
the doctor sat waiting for her. Handing him the note,
she was about to explain its import, when Anna joined
her, and explained herself, charging him to attend to it
the very first thing.

John's mustached lip curled a little scornfully as he
read it.

“Why, puss, that girl or woman is in Georgia by this
time, and as the result of this, Terrace Hill will be thronged
with unfortunate women and children, desiring situations.
They'll stand three deep from the park gate to the
house. Better let me burn this, as I did the other, and
not be foolish. She will never see it,” and John made a
gesture as if he would put it in the stove, but Anna caught
his hand, saying imploringly, “Please humor me this once.
She may see it, and I'm so interested.”

Anna was always humored, and so the doctor placed
in his memorandum book the note, then turning to Alice
he addressed her in so low a tone that Anna readily took
the hint and left them together. Dr. Richards was not
intending to be gone long, he said, though the time
would seem a little eternity, so much was his heart now
bound up in Snowdon.

Afraid lest he might say something more of the same
nature, Alice hastened to ask if he had seen her mother,
and what he thought of her.

I stepped in for a moment while you were in the
library,” he replied. “She seemed to have a high fever,
and I fancied it increased while I stood by her. I am
sorry to leave while she is so sick, but remember that if
anything happens you will be dearer to me than ever,”
and the doctor pressed the little hand which he took in
his to say good-bye, for now he must really go.

With a swelling heart Alice watched him as he left
the house, and then running to her own room locked the
door and throwing herself upon the bed sobbed bitterly.
What did his words, “if anything happens' imply? Did
he think her mother so very sick? Was she going to
die? “Oh, mother, mother! I will not let her go!” was
the cry of a heart which at first rebelled against the
threatened blow, refusing to receive it. Anon, however,
better, calmer thoughts succeeded, and though Alice could
not yet say “Thy will be done,” she was not so rebellious,
and a pleading prayer went up, “Spare, oh, spare my mother,”
while hope whispered that this terrible calamity would
not happen to her.

As the day and night wore on Mrs. Johnson grew worse
so rapidly that at her request a telegram was forwarded
to Mr. Liston, who had charge of her moneyed affairs,
and who came at once, for the kind old man was deeply
interested in the widow and her lovely daughter. As
Mrs. Johnson could bear it, they talked alone together
until he perfectly understood what her wishes were with
regard to Alice, and how to deal with Dr. Richards.
Then promising to return again in case the worst should
happen, he took his leave, while Mrs. Johnson, now that a
weight was lifted from her mind, seemed to rally, and the
physician pronounced her better. But with that strange

foreknowledge, which sometimes comes to people whose
days are nearly numbered, she felt that she would die, and
that in mercy this interval of rest and freedom from pain
was granted her, in which she might talk with Alice concerning
the arrangements for the future.

“Alice, darling,” she said, when they were alone, “come
sit by me here on the bed and listen to what I say.”

Alice obeyed, and taking her mother's hot hand in hers
she waited for what was to come.

“Alice, darling, are you willing to be left alone for a
little while? It won't be long, and our Father in Heaven
knows best what is for our good.”

“Oh, mother, don't; you will not die,” and Alice sobbed
convulsively. “Last night, when I thought you were in
danger, I prayed so hard to be willing, but I couldn't, oh,
I couldn't, and God seemed a great ways off — seemed as
if he did not hear. In all the wide world I can never find
another mother, and I shall be so desolate.”

Mrs. Johnson knew just how desolate her dying would
leave her child, for she had felt the same, and for a few
moments she strove to comfort the weeping girl, who hid
her face in the pillows, by telling her of One who will
surely care for the orphan; for he has said he would, and
his word never fails.

“You have learned to trust him in prosperity, and He
will be a thousand fold nearer to you in adversity. You'll
miss me, I know, and be very lonely without me, but you
are young, and life has many charms for you, besides God
will never forget or forsake his covenant children.”

Gradually as she talked the sobbing ceased, and when
the white face lifted itself from its hiding place there was
a look upon it as if the needed strength had been sought
and to some extent imparted.

“My will was made some time ago,” Mrs. Johnson continued,
“and that with a few exceptions, such as legacies
to your nurse Densie Densmore, and some charitable institutions,

you are my sole heir. Mr. Liston is to be you
guardian, and will look after your interests until you are
of age, or longer if you choose. You know that as both
your father and myself were only children, you have no
near relatives on either side to whom you can look for
protection. There is a kind of second cousin, it is true,
the old gentlemon who visited us just before we came
here. But his family are gay, fashionable people, and
I'd rather you should not go there, even if he were
willing. Mr. Liston would give you a home with him,
but I do not think that best and there is but one other
alternative.

“You will remember having heard me speak occasionally
of a friend now living in Kentucky, a Mrs. Worthington
whose husband was a distant relative of ours.
Ralph Worthington and your father were school boys together,
and afterward college companions. They were
more like brothers than friends; indeed, they were often
likened to David and Jonathan, so strongly were they attached
to each other.

I was but sixteen when I became a bride, and, as you
know, several years elapsed ere God blessed me with a living
child. Your father was consumptive, and the chances
were that I should early be left a widow. This it was, I
think, which led to the agreement made by the two friends
to the effect that if either died the living one should care
for the widow and fatherless as for a brother's family. To
see the two as they pledged themselves to keep this solemn
compact, you would not have guessed that the tall,
athletic, broad chested Ralph, would be the first to go, yet
so it was. He died ere you were born.”

“Then he is dead? Oh, I'm so sorry,” Alice exclaimed.
“Yes, he's dead; and, as far as possible, your father fulfilled
his promise to Ralph's widow and her child — a little
boy, five years old, of whom Mrs. Worthington herself
was appointed guardian. I never knew what spirit of

evil possessed Eliza who had been my schoolmate and
to whom I was greatly attached; but in less than a year
after her husband's death, she made a second and most unfortunate
marriage. We both opposed it, for we distrusted
the man. As the result of our opposition, a coolness
sprang up between us, and we saw but little of each other
after that. Mr. Murdoch proved a greater scoundrel than
we supposed, and when their little girl was nearly two
years old, we heard of a divorce. Mr. Johnson's health
was failing fast, and we were about to make the tour of
Europe, in hopes a change would benefit him. Just before
we sailed we visited poor Eliza, whom we found doubly
heart-broken, for, in addition to the other outrages heaped
upon her, the brutal wretch had managed to steal her
beautiful daughter, and carried it no one knew whither.
I never shall forget the distress of the brother. I've often
thought of him since, and wondered what he had grown
to be. We comforted Eliza as best we could, and left
money to be used for her in case she needed it. Then we
embarked with you and Densie for Europe. You know
how for a while, your father seemed to regain his strength,
how he at last grew worse and hastened home to die.
In the sorrow and excitement which followed, it is not
strange that Eliza was for a time forgotten, and when I remembered
and enquired for her again, I heard that Hugh
had been adopted by some relation in Kentucky, that the
stolen child had been mysteriously returned, and was living
with its mother in Elmswood — a quiet, out-of-the-way
town, which I never visited until that summer when you
went West with the Gilmores.

“At first Eliza appeared a little cool, but this soon
wore off, and was mostly owing, I fancy, to the mortification
she felt at my finding her in circumstances so changed
from what they used to be, for, though managing to keep
up a genteel exterior, she was really very poor. She did
not talk much of Hugh. Indeed, she knew but little of

him, as his letters were far apart, and only contained praises
of his horses, his dogs, and the rare sport he had in hunting
with his eccentric uncle, whose name I have forgotten.
Neither did she say much of Adaline, who was then away
at school. Still my visit was a sadly satisfactory one, as
we recalled old times when we were girls together, weeping
over our great loss when our husbands were laid to
rest. Then we spoke of their friendship, and lastly of the
contract.

“`It sounds preposterous in me, I know,' Mrs. Worthington
said, when we parted, `you are so rich and I so
poor, but if ever Alice should want a mother's care, I will
gladly give it to her.'

“This was nearly eight years ago. And, as I failed to
write her for a long, long time, while she was long in answering,
the correspondence ceased till just before her
removal to Kentucky, when she apprised me of the change.
You have now the history of Mrs. Worthington, the only
person who comes to mind as one to whose care I can
entrust you.”

“But, mother, I may not be wanted there,” and Alice's
lip quivered painfully. “Adaline is a young lady now,
and Hugh, what of him, mother? What is he?”

Mrs. Johnson could not tell; neither did she know if
her darling would be welcome, but money, she knew, had
a charm, and she replied to Alice's queries,

“You will not go empty handed, nor be a burden to
them. They are poor, and money will not come amiss.
We can but try at all events, and if they object, Mr. Liston
will do the best he can for you. For some weeks, it
has been impressed upon me that my time was short, and
fancying it could do no harm, I have written to Mrs.
Worthington a letter which you will send when I am
gone. I have asked her to receive you, to care for you
as her own. I said that Mr. Liston would attend to all
pecuniary matters, paying your allowance quarterly; and

I am sure you will not object when I tell you that I think
it right to leave Adaline the sum of one thousand dollars.
It will not materially lessen your inheritance, and it will
do her a world of good. Mr. Liston will arrange it for
you. You will remain here until you hear from Mrs.
Worthington, and then abide by her arrangements. She
is a gentle, affectionate woman, and will be kind to you.
I do not know that she is a Christian, but your influence
may do her good, and make her bless the day when you
were sent to her. Will you go, my daughter — go cheerfully?”

“Yes, mother, I'll go,” came gaspingly from Alice's lips.
I'll go but, mother, oh, mother,” and Alice's cry ended as it
always did, “you will not, you must not die!”

But neither tears, nor prayers could avail to keep the
mother longer. Her work on earth was done, and after
this conversation, she grew worse so rapidly that hope
died out of Alice's heart, and she knew that soon she
would be motherless. There were days and nights of
pain and delirium in which the sick woman recognized
none of those around her save Alice, whom she continually
blessed as her darling, praying that God, too, would bless
and keep his covenant child. At last there came a change,
and one lovely Sunday morning, when the sunlight lay
upon the springing grass and sparkled on the river, when
the air was laden with the early flowers' perfume, and birds
were singing by the door, the delirium passed away, and
in the room so long kept dark and still, were heard whispered
words of joy, of peace, of perfect rest, such as the
dying Christian only feels. It was early morning then,
and ere the bell from St. Paul's tower sent forth its summons
to the house of God, there rang from its belfry a
solemn toll, and the villagers listening to it, said, as they
counted forty-four, that Mrs. Johnson was dead.